Lessons Learned | Nevada Mule Deer

Story By: Garrett Gregory 

My dad taught us to love the woods. We hunted in mountains that were steep and forested, where the deer were small. It’s harder than you’d think. As an adult, I moved far from home and didn’t get to hunt with my dad as much as I’d have liked. So, when I started planning my 2025 season and the chance to chase deer together in Nevada came up, I didn’t hesitate.

Nevada ain't the woods I grew up in. Seemingly endless rolling hills of sage, sage, sage, and then sudden, sharp, barren mountains. The state is known for regularly requiring shots well beyond 600 yards. The farthest shooting distance I’d had success at was 450 yards. Every chance I had in the year leading up to this hunt, I practiced shooting at extended distances. Guess what? It’s harder than you’d think.

I rolled into camp and was introduced to Jake of Pine Peak Outfitters. My dad has hunted with Jake for ten years now. He’s a Nevada native and possibly the best hunter any of us will ever know. The joke around camp is that Jake could pick out a buck in a sage thicket at a two-mile distance—in the dark. And I’d say that’s only a mild stretch of the truth. The best part is that Jake likes to spot big bucks. But 2025 had been a tough year. Early scouting trips weren’t showing much promise in the big buck department. So, for this trip, he assembled a whole crew to assist: Robb, Chris, Matt, and Owen.

Opening morning came, and everyone split off in different directions. Jake, Matt, and I were lucky enough to turn up a solid buck, and we decided to make a move on him. We watched as he traveled nearly a mile before bedding down, then the stalk was on. We eased our way to within 670 yards, but that was as close as we could get without blowing him out. That was going to be the shot—more than 200 yards farther than any shot I’d ever taken on an animal. The waiting started, and so did the nerves.

Not long after I got set up, Jake could tell the buck was getting ready to stand. I settled into the rifle, and, sure enough, he rose to his feet. The shot felt good… But it’s harder than you’d think. I missed. By the time I chambered another round, he was long gone.

We’ve all second-guessed ourselves after a missed shot—was it the gun? Did the wind pick up? What did I do wrong? I went to bed that night replaying the moment over and over. The next few days didn’t help either; we didn’t turn up a single deer, not even a track. I started to wonder if I’d squandered my one real opportunity.

On an evening a few days later, Jake and I climbed up a hill to get a better glassing angle. We picked apart every patch of country we could see, but nothing showed. We moved over the next ridge, reset, and kept glassing. True to his reputation, Jake suddenly froze and said, “Found a buck.” I could barely see him with my naked eye, so I grabbed my spotting scope to get a better look. Jake’s voice dropped to a whisper as he looked back at me and said, “That’s the biggest deer I’ve ever seen.” I almost didn’t believe him. This is a guy who’s seen thousands more deer than I ever have. There was no way it could be that big. Then I found the buck in my glass, and, sure enough, it looked every bit as big as Jake had said. We were losing daylight fast, and the decision was made for us—we’d have to go after him in the morning. Back at camp, a quiet buzz settled over everyone as the reality of what we’d found sank in. How were we going to get close enough for a shot? Would he still be there at first light? Would I miss this one too? I didn’t sleep a wink that night.

As we climbed the hillside the next morning to the top of the ridge, the good news came: the buck was still there. We quickly agreed on an approach, and the stalk was on once again. As we tiptoed forward, every snapping twig made us hold our breath. With each step closer, the same question crept into my mind—how was I going to mess this up?

We eventually closed the distance from 1,500 yards to 550. I crawled to the edge of a ridge where I could just make out the buck bedded on the hillside, tucked behind a patch of brush. The doubts came and went—did he see us? Did the wind shift? But as I settled in, it became clear this monster had no idea we were there. I struggled to get the rifle set up comfortably. I didn’t want a repeat of the first buck, so I took my time, making sure everything was perfect. I braced myself for a long wait. We hoped he’d stand from his bed. To our surprise, it didn’t take more than thirty seconds. “He’s up,” Jake whispered.

It was go time. I dialed the scope, double-checked the yardage. Everything felt right. I lined up the crosshairs. I squeezed the trigger.

The bullet sailed straight between his legs. I couldn’t believe it—I’d botched it again.

I quickly reloaded and found the buck in my scope. And then, a miracle: he hadn’t moved. I was getting another chance. I adjusted the dial after realizing I’d shot low, but Jake could see I was starting to unravel. “Calm down,” he said quietly. “Let the trigger surprise you.” I slowed my breathing. The wind laid down. I let the trigger surprise me. Boom.

Through the scope, I watched the buck bolt straight behind a tree—and he didn’t come out. Then came the words every hunter waits for.

“Hit him.”

Relief washed over me. Anyone who hunts prays for those words. We watched for movement, but nothing stirred. The tree blocked our view, so we eased our way closer. I couldn’t help but question—what if I’d just grazed him? When we rounded the tree, the answer was clear. The shot had done the job.

I was speechless.

This buck was massive—easily the biggest deer I’d ever laid eyes on, let alone hunted. Jake looked at me and laughed. “You’re ruined,” he said. “You’ll never top this.” He was right.

In that moment, I couldn’t help but think of my dad, who's been hunting his whole life and has been hunting this country with Jake for years. He's the better woodsman, the better shot. He’s the one that should have been hunting this deer. Nobody earns the luck of hunting success, but if anybody's “put in the work”, it’s my dad.

We packed the bruiser off the mountain, antlers jutting from the pack and scraping brush the whole way down to the truck. When he finally saw the buck, my dad’s face said everything.

Then he smiled and said, “You miss again?” It dawned on me: thank God I’d missed the first buck.

After we loaded up and started the long drive home, everything finally slowed down. The nerves were gone. The doubts were quiet. I realized the deer wasn’t the real reward. What mattered was the chance my dad had given me—not only on this hunt but every time he’d taken me into the woods growing up. The lessons were never just about making the shot. They were about patience, humility, and knowing when to slow down.

I left Nevada a better hunter, grateful for the lessons learned and even more grateful for every step my dad has guided me on through the woods.